Divided We Stand
by ai-08
Summary: America writes the Declaration of Independence and is paid a visit by England. Englandxcolony!America


Divided We Stand

_June 30th, 1776  
Boston_

America had yet to notice that he was no longer alone. Completely absorbed in what he was working on, he sat hunched over his desk, never taking his pen from the parchment except to get more ink. As a result, the bead of water that landed on his paper went largely unnoticed until he blew softly at the newly written words; the thick droplet flying across the paper, smearing several words as it glided across.

"Dammit," he cursed and threw his pen down, exasperated, and looked up to see if there was a leak in the roof. He vaguely remembered having rushed in from the rain a few hours ago, a random shower having taken the town by surprise.

"Might I enquire as to the nature of this particular piece of writing?"

Always a little on edge when by himself, America startled easily and gave an audible gasp when he saw that England was leaning over his desk inspecting his work. With a scowl, he noted that England had probably been there for some time before deciding to speak up, the tone of his voice both reprimanding and bemused. The sort of tone one took with an unruly child who had done something naughty, yet nonetheless clever.

Through the dim light of his cheap tallow candles, America could see that England was quite thoroughly soaked. His hair was so wet that the ends of his golden bangs were now a dark shade of brown and had begun to drip water down his face, though England paid it no heed. Somewhere along the way he had lost possession of his coat and vest and wore only his shirt, knee breeches, silk stockings, and shoes. He hooked a finger under the limp cravat at his neck and began to loosen it.

"I didn't hear you knock," America said, voice quiet but even. He blushed furiously, the urge to conceal what he had been working on clawed at his insides like a mad lion, but he fought it. He forced himself to remain motionless and fixed his gaze on the timepiece above the fireplace. He would not be ashamed. If he was going to stand up to England, he was damn well going to start now.

England leaned closer still, trying to read the scratchy writing and blotted words. "I found that to be unnecessary," he said, his hot, moist mouth ghosting against America's neck. Then, adding with a mocking half-slur, "Your penmanship leaves much to be desired."

It was quickly becoming increasingly difficult to remain still. America's feet began to fidget and he dug the nail of his index finger into his desk, worrying at the wood. He could smell the sour scent of liquor on England's breath and wanted to draw into himself.

"What do you want, England?" America tried his best to sound mildly annoyed, but he knew England heard the catch in his voice.

England straightened himself and smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. He rested a hand on the back of America's stiff shoulder; he could feel how tense and nervous the younger man was and laughed lightly, his cheeks flushed unnaturally with too much drink. "Just wanted to visit with my favorite colony," he said sarcastically. "I was hoping for a good time."

England's last remark came as a complete shock and the double meaning behind his words were not lost on the colony. Without thinking America stood and turned around, a cry of indignation caught in his throat when, to his surprise, he came face to face with the older nation. He instantly regretted having moved and gripped the back of his chair, the only barrier between the two.

America tried to look the nation in the eye, tried to say something, anything. But he was too worked up, and the longer he remained silent, the more foolish he knew he appeared to be. His ears burned hot with embarrassment and his eyes darted from a vague spot on England's face to the floor several times. "Excuse me?" he finally managed to choke out.

The expression on England's face darkened, as if he had expected America to understand him without having to explain. "I came to have a nice little chat, but then I find you at _this_ again," he said, sloppily indicating at his desk. "When will your juvenile dreams of 'independence' cease, America?"

He reached forward and snatched up the pieces of parchment. And while America was more than strong enough to stop him in his inebriated state, he allowed it, England's reckless hold causing them to wrinkle and tear. England read through the passages, his bleary eyes moving fervently through each sentence, each paragraph, even trying to read those that had been crossed through.

After a moment England laughed and began to read parts aloud, the derision evident in his voice:

"When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another … We hold these truths to be self evident: that all men are created equal … Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any form of government becomes destructive it is the right of the people to abolish it… What _is_ this drivel?"

America stood silent, any remains of self-confidence having dissipated with each of England's hateful words.

England gave a heavy, drawn out sigh and ran a hand through his wet locks. "Is it not enough," he began in a reproving tone, "is it not enough that, since the dawn of your existence, I have fed you, clothed you, _protected_ you? A little unrest I expected; it has been a very trying time for us all. But _this_," England spat the word like it was poison and shook the papers he held in his fist. "I will not stand back and allow you to make a complete mockery of the Crown and do as you please!"

He tossed the papers back to the desk and kicked the chair out of the way. America took a step back and hit the desk, almost falling.

"You fancy yourself strong enough to stand on your own, do you? You don't know the first _thing_ about independence; you don't know a _bloody_ thing. You need me to protect you, and if that means protecting you from yourself, America, then God help me I will. It's high time you learned your place."

England's words were like a slap to the face. At this accusation, America completely lost his nerve and lowered his head. That familiar need to please England crept up and America found himself embarrassed and ashamed for displeasing him.

England sighed again and placed a hand under America's jaw, drawing his face up. "I don't mean to shout," he said in mock apology, a belittling smile playing at his lips. "I've humored you- I've been much too lenient. It's my fault you've been such a disgrace."

At that America wrenched his jaw from England's grasp and for a moment they just stood and looked at each other; England stunned by America's sudden boldness, and America unsure of what to do next.

Finally, America decided to speak.

"So that's what I am? I've been a disgrace? You send your soldiers to 'protect' me, then raise my taxes to compensate when I could have used my own damn men. And you have the nerve to come in here and say that-"

"Would you have me over-look your debts?" England interjected. "Did I not withdraw the Stamp Act at your insistent whining?" He laughed. "I was right- I've humored you to near ruin."

America clenched his teeth and shook his head furiously. "You're missing the point entirely!" His voice was steadily rising. "You've dismissed _any_ form of government I try to create. You don't trust me! I'm sick of being treated like a child."

"I will give you more responsibility when you are ready for it," England ground out, his temper quickly getter the best of him. "Clearly, as your current actions show, you are not yet ready for such responsibilities."

America laughed. "Oh that's rich, coming from the drunk."

At that remark England raised a hand and struck him clear across the face. America stumbled back and fell upon the desk. He raised a hand to his cheek and blinked a few times, feeling the sting of tears. "Y-you hit me," he said, completely taken aback.

"You will do as you are told," England said in response, voice hard. "And you will learn some respect."

America snapped out of his daze and lunged forward. He grabbed England by the front of his shirt and drew his fist back, ready to slug him, but England trapped it in a vise-like grip. America howled in frustration and tried to jerk free, but England would not release him.

"I am your sovereign," the older nation said evenly. "And as such you _will_ do as I say."

"Go to hell," America spat.

As soon as the words came out of his mouth he regretted being so crass; England's nostrils flared in anger and his eyes narrowed. For a split second America thought he was going to hit him again, when suddenly he found the older nation's mouth upon his own so violently their teeth clashed together.

America sputtered and tried to draw back, pushing insistently at him with his free arm. In response England drew a hand around the back of the colony's neck and ran his fingers through his hair, the cold, wet cuff of his shirt against America's bare skin sending a chill down his spine.

America did not return the kiss, refused to return it, but for a moment he allowed himself to enjoy it, lost in the sensation of England's embrace, even if it was just a lie, just another attempt to control him. But just as quickly as it had begun, England tore their mouths apart. And much to America's embarrassment, he gave a small, involuntary cry of protest.

England pushed him away, violently, as if it had been America who had initiated it. The look of horror on his face was unmistakable. Even in his drunken stupor England realized the hypocrisy of his actions and shame enveloped him like a guilty, suffocating blanket. How could he claim America was too immature to make his own decisions, and then try to take advantage of him? No matter if he found the insufferable colony unbearably attractive, it was his duty to protect him. He had no business trying to-

England turned away; now it was he who could not look the other man in the eye.

"Forgive me," England said, quietly. "I am drunk but that is no excuse. I will take me leave; we can finish this conversation tomorrow when we're… less worked up."

England stumbled back, momentarily forgetting how to use his legs.

"Don't you dare leave," America said. He reached out to stop the older nation, catching him by the sleeve of his shirt. England stopped but did not turn to look at him. "I think it best if I see myself out, America," England said quietly. "We should… we should just forget this."

"You're so full of shit!" America shouted. "Dammit it, England, I'm not a child anymore!"

England jerked his arm away, but there was no force behind the movement. "Don't try me, America," England warned, a long repressed need creeping up in his voice.

"Don't leave," America said again, pushing, testing. Then, much quieter, added, "Please."

"This is wrong," England said, voice barely above a whisper. "Immoral," he insisted. "We can't…"

America raised his hand and lightly brushed the back of it against England's cheek. England's breath hitched and after a moment he closed his eyes and began to lean into the touch. America smiled and, taking the older nation by surprise, snuck his hand around the back of his head and pulled him in for another kiss.

England gasped and froze for a second before giving into him. In the back of his mind he knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn't allow America go get carried away with even more preposterous ideas, but the truth was… he couldn't deny America this. He couldn't deny _himself_ this.

America was inexperienced but genuine, his kisses passionate but a little sloppy. Slowly England began to take over, gently taking hold of him and guiding the young colony. After a while he broke the kiss and, blushing, gave a rare smile, the kind he had given America when he was younger. "Is this alright?" he asked, moving to brush his lips against the tender skin at America's neck. America, now the same height as the older nation, clung to him like a life line and nodded into the crook of his neck. That was all the reassurance the older nation needed.

America tilted his head, giving him easier access to his exposed collar. England traced the line of a tendon with his nose, his breath like thousands of hot pin pricks. America gave a gasp and quickly sought out his mouth again. At first England had forced his hands to remain on the colony's hips, but America was beginning to become adventurous with his caresses, so England decided to test the waters and sneaked a hand up the front of his untucked shirt. America gave a small moan as both of the older nation's hands moved up his torso, his fingers stroking and pressing into the heated flesh.

Soon England found himself pushed to sit on the desk. America quickly crawled into his lap, the young colony's long legs wrapping around either side of his hips. England drew him into another kiss and began to work at the buttons of America's shirt.

"Are you _sure_ this is what you want?" England trailed kisses across his jaw line and nibbled at the shell of his ear. America growled. "Stop asking and just-" England grabbed him roughly and held him as close as possible, grinding their hips together. "Ah, fuck, _England_," America hissed, clutching at his back. "Lie down on the desk," England commanded and America quickly scrambled to comply.

England stood back and began to unbutton his shirt, drinking in the view. America's chest heaved and he turned his head to watch him, his hair a complete mess and his face flushed and scowling. "Hurry up," he panted. England grinned and climbed on top of him, sending lazy kisses down his firm stomach, biting and licking as he went along. "Promise you won't try to leave me," England said, his hands at the hem of America's breeches. America could nearly feel the heat from his breath through the fabric and he twitched to life in anticipation. "Promise me," the older nation repeated as he began to unfasten his trousers.

"I-"

England took him into his mouth and America moaned his name like it was a prayer.

-

Thomas Jefferson sat in his office staring at the crossed out passages before him, the soft glow of his oil lamp playing against his skin and the lines of frustration unmistakable on his face. He sighed and tapped his pen against his desk, looking at the countless pieces of paper he had crumbled up and discarded. He knew what he wanted, what he had to say, but he was still unsure of how to start. Even after all these days of brainstorming… He was beginning to wonder if it had been a good choice to assign him to write the draft.

With a heavy heart, America walked down the dimly light hallway and stopped just outside Jefferson's study. Hands reluctant to move and slightly shaking, he opened the door ever so slightly and stared into the room. After a few moments he took a deep breath and whispered something.

Suddenly, Jefferson gave a small cry of happiness as if an idea had just hit him and he began to write fervently. America gave a small smile, stepped back, and closed the door.

He stood there for quite some time, idly wondering why doing the right thing hurt so badly.

A/N: I've seen this situation written a few different ways, and I've always felt that England's always been written to be too abusive and cold, so here's my take on it. Also, I'm aware that the humans can see the nations, but I like the idea that all of the great works from around the world were inspired by the nations themselves. Anyways, hope everyone is having a happy Christmas! Please let me know what you thought. Thanks!


End file.
